


The Hollow

by AnnaofAza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demon Bela Talbot, Demon Dean Winchester, Dying Castiel, Gen, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, M/M, Mark of Cain, Minor Violence, Post-Episode: s09e23 Do You Believe In Miracles?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-08
Updated: 2014-08-08
Packaged: 2018-02-12 07:55:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2101686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnnaofAza/pseuds/AnnaofAza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I built myself out of blood and bone and brimstone. I resurrected myself. I’m not Bela Talbot any more than this new Knight of Hell is Dean Winchester.” </p><p>His last wish is to save Dean Winchester. This is why Castiel is kneeling at the dirt-packed crossroads, digging a hole big enough to fix a small wooden box.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hollow

Castiel doesn’t want to go to Crowley. Oh, he considers it, but it doesn’t take much willpower to purge it from his mind. He remembers the last time he worked with Crowley—how could he not?—and even if Crowley did offer a solution, in the end, it would turn to benefit himself more than anything else. And since Crowley twisted Dean into...into _this_ , Castiel’s less inclined to go along with any of the King of Hell’s ideas.

And he will never, never, ask Metatron for anything. Metatron knows something, but it’s probably another lie so the world could fall on its sword and praise his name. The defeated angel is in prison, but he’s not gagged, and Hannah reports to him that there are whispers in Heaven, of letting Metatron make his offer or simply finishing the job themselves. _They think you won’t do it,_ Hannah warns. _Some are more than willing._ _They want someone without restraint._

Castiel knows that he has more than enough restraint. or perhaps too much. That’s why he’s thinking about entangling with demons and using most of his strength to keep himself alive enough to help Dean.

 _You’d kill yourself so he can live,_ Hannah snapped at him, clearly frustrated with him. _Castiel, this can’t be how you want it to end_.

This is why Castiel is kneeling at the dirt-packed crossroads, digging a hole big enough to fix a small wooden box. The night breeze nips sharply at his face, blowing his coat aside so the chill could seep through his thin, button-down shirt and into his chest. But his heart pounds wildly, sparking with heated determination. _There is no other option, Cas,_ Sam had sighed, before turning his back and letting Castiel slink out of the bunker. But there _is_.

The graveyard dirt is still crammed underneath his fingernails, and no matter how many times he wipes his hands against his worn jeans, the gritty sensation doesn’t come off.

The small bone of a black cat, found dead in the alleyway behind a restaurant, took time to find. Castiel didn’t want to have to kill anything.

But the hardest part is putting in the worn photo ID, carefully extracted from the black leather wallet. It’s the only photo he has of himself, so Castiel doesn’t have a choice. He remembers Dean laughing as the camera flashed, catching his expression of what could be accurately described as bored exasperation, or as Dean called, _why the hell am I doing this?_ The golden badge is worn, along with the black letters that describe his false identity— _Agent Eddie Moscone, FBI, you gotta remember that_ —despite the clear plastic covering.

It’s odd, having this possession for so long. Castiel, if he had thought about it, wasn’t sure why he had exactly kept it. Angels had the power to manipulate lies, and he never really thought about if he would lose enough of being an angel that he’d need to lie.

Castiel breathes and rubs his hands together.

The woman who appears sends chills zipping up his spine. For a moment, he thinks,  _Abaddon_. The demon does not have any physical resemblance to the now-deceased Knight of Hell—her autumn-colored hair is wavy and falls just below her shoulders, which are covered in a rust-red leather jacket that’s paired with high-heeled boots. But the air she carries herself is so much like a queen—chin tilted upwards, shoulders back, and an air of casual arrogance, a demand to heard and obeyed.

Castiel tries to draw up his own chin and look her in the eyes. He must not show his uncertainty. Crossroads demons love to take advantage of any wavering spot and continuously prod at it until something breaks enough for a deal to be sealed and done.

But this is no ordinary crossroads demon.

Her eyes are a gray-green, but once she locks her gaze with him, she smiles slowly, and her eyes slide upward in their sockets. They’re ruby-red, as bright as blood on white cloth, and hold a gleam of curiosity.

“I just had to see this for myself,” the woman says, sauntering over, hips swaying. “Castiel, the little angel who couldn’t.”

“I want to make a deal,” Castiel replies. He wants no time for mockery or distractions. He’s come here for one thing and one thing only.

“Straight to the heart of the matter.” Looking at him, she tilts her head and allows curls to ripple down to cover half of her face. It’s sharp-edged, but smooth, somehow, and her cheekbones are sharply in focus, defined. Her nose is aristocratic but long, and her lips are painted the same color as her jacket. She smiles as if it comes easily to her, but it’s the same quirk of that Dean used to have— _has_ : practice.

“Yes.” She throws back her head and laughs. It’s like a wine glass, clear and lovely, but hollow. “God, it’s a Winchester. It’s always a Winchester with you. Isn’t that right?”

“Dean,” Castiel says, warmth creeping into his voice to battle the cold in all of this: his skin, her voice, this night. His tone is tender because he remembers what all of this is for: Dean—a song on his lips, a gleam in his eyes, a determined clench to his fingers. If he could succeed in this, all will be granted. Dean will live as he’s meant to live, and Castiel will make it so. It _has_ to work.

“Figured.” At her condensing but certain tone, he frowns in confusion. She only rolls her eyes. “It’s not hard to find out. It’s the worst kept secret down there.” Pointing to the ground below them, as if he’s a slow child, she steps forward again. He could feel sulfur, and for a moment, he thinks _Dean_ and hates himself. Dean was rust and oil and smoke, not this abomination.

“I’m willing to bargain.” He watches her. She reminds him of a little of Meg, all slithers and smiles. “Tell me your name.”

“Why?” She asks, coyly.

"You know who I am.”

The demon grins more widely. “I guess that’s fair. I’ll be known soon enough.”

She sweeps into a mocking bow. “Bela Talbot, Queen of the Crossroads.”

He only nods in response. Sam and Dean had dropped her name a scant few times, but he recalls the name. It was treated with scorn and contempt and little else. Castiel doesn’t know enough to speak ill of her, but Dean had mentioned she had gone to Hell. He refused to say anything after that subject, and Castiel had dropped it. They were busy then, researching in desperation to find out a plan to send Lucifer back into his Cage. Castiel thinks it’s almost preposterous, thinking about those terrifying months with a small amount of pleasure, but it was before the cycle of betrayal and lies and broken promises. They were a team, Castiel reminds himself. They had been in all of this together. No more, not for long. Dean was gone. Sam was, too, but in a different way. Castiel...well, he can’t recognize very much of himself anymore.

“All right,” Bela speaks up, snapping her fingers in front of his face as if he were a dog. “Let me guess. You sell your soul, you go to Hell, and you join Dean Winchester, the new King.”

 _“No.”_ His astonishment and revulsion give him a sharp bite to his words. “I want to save him.”

“Sorry, cupcake.” She replies archly, with an exaggerated sigh. “Not possible.”

“You _have_ to.”

“I don’t _have_ to do anything.” Bela retorts scornfully. “And even if I did, I can’t.” She shakes her head. “It’s the bloody _Mark of Cain_ , not a simple trade or a deal. He took it on himself. You _choose_ it. And even so...” Castiel flinches when a long finger prods him squarely in the chest. “It’s impossible. It’s too powerful. Everyone knows that.”

“I have to try.” He says, angry. Castiel expected the crossroads demon to refuse, to play him, to wear him down, but the truth punches him in the stomach. There is a lingering bit of doubt, with murmurs of the angels above and hisses of the demons below that say the same thing: he’s never coming back. Hannah had warned him, told him she’d try to stall for as long as she could, but the angels would band together to destroy Dean. _He’s not human,_ she had cautioned. _Not anymore._

Castiel knows it. Dean was a blade, sharp and honed and deadly. He nicked weakness easier. Sam had told Castiel of the axe, how Dean savaged their new home and swung it directly at his beloved brother’s head, how Sam had hurt him to try to get him away, but Dean had ended up leaving by his own accord. But Dean’s reaction to Castiel was deceptively soft. Castiel remembered fingertips at his neck, breath in his ear, sweetly-sick smiles. _I don’t want to be saved, Cas._

The Queen of the Crossroads sees it all. “I won’t make a deal for something that can’t be fixed.” Her chin juts upwards. “I don’t even like to make deals.”

“What?” he demands. “Why?”

“It’s not for me.” She pretends that she’s interested at flicking away some dust from her shoes. “I don’t play the naïve. I take justice.”

“Justice?”

She only scowls in reply. “You heard me. I punish the bastards up here. It’s like a vacation for me. Besides, I don’t like to be manipulated. It’s what got me here.”

Something flashes in his mind, papers he’s skimmed through for evidence and information. He’d tossed a few aside in his perusal, but the headlines are clear: _Child Molester Brutally Murdered in Backyard. Child Abuser Found Dead. Long-Accused Child Murderer Viciously Killed. Child’s Alleged Abusive Parents Torn in Shreds in the Park._ He had thought they were Dean, but he remembers a name in the columns. _Bela_ , albeit misspelled. The pieces click together.

“I believe you.”

“So why don’t you leave? I can’t do anything.”

“I don’t believe you. It’s not impossible.” His voice hardens instead of gentling. “Have faith.”

“Had it. Lost it.” The way she looks at him reminds him of a barn full of shadows, sigils scrawled on the walls, a young man with disbelief in his features. “I was a just a kid,” she continues. “No one answered me. No one helped me. Too late.” Her eyes are so human, swallowed briefly with pain and grief. She can’t look at him.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

“When the angels came down there, I...you know what?” Now she’s glaring at him, angered by the futility. “The vibrations echoed throughout Hell. The lights blinded everyone who hadn’t seen the sun for centuries. I heard every demon in the area and beyond screaming. It was glorious.” Her laugh is definitely forced. “I didn’t know _what_ I was thinking.”

“You remember,” he breathes.

She sucks in air through her nose, really for show than anything else, and crosses her arms. “Of course I remember.” Castiel notices that her eyes are fixed on his human body, raking it up and down, and he feels a shudder of revulsion creep up through his stomach and fix itself in his throat. “I remember the angels. They were brighter than anything else. They were brutally beautiful. Their wings were...” Pausing for thought, Bela closes her eyes in recollection. “Their wings were so large and they burned, spread out like a hawk’s. I remember...I never believed—“ Her bottom lip now curls from her teeth, and she opens her eyes, human-green. “I have no reason to now, but...”

Castiel, in spite of himself, pushes for more. “What did you feel?”

She sneers. “Does it matter now?”

He nods. “It still does.”

Bela’s eyes flick to the sky, and she laughs, shaking her head, curls bouncing along her shoulders. “God, I’ve got nothing better to do,” she sighs. “But fine. I remembered so many things. Daylight, sunshine, stars in the sky, all the cliché things.” Balling her fingers in fists, she turns to his gaze again. “I could have had a chance to see those things.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, but the Queen wants no excuse.

“I see you, Castiel,” she snarls. “You’re bleeding blue light in your chest, your wings are tattered, and you’re _broken_.” Her words are perfect shards of ice, biting and bitter. Castiel flinches. “You’re going to die a _mess_ , angel,” she continues, spitting out the syllables like curses. “And here’s my policy: if you screw me over, I’ll screw _you_ over.”

“I don’t—“ he begins, but she interrupts him.

_“Why couldn’t you save me?”_

“My orders were to save Dean Winchester.” His voice is cold and clipped, and he recoils from them.

“But did they specifically say _only_ Dean Winchester?” she demands. “Couldn’t you have just smuggled one or two souls under your flasher coat there?” Bela snarls, on the verge of screaming. “I was the _first seal_. Shouldn’t that get me points? I was the first he sliced into, and he _loved_ it. He _still_ does.” She continues, reveling in the way he shakes his head, denies. “He _does_. I once told him that he was a stone’s throw from being a serial killer. All for justice—his _own_ justice. His own motives. And now look at what he’s become. I can’t say _I told you so_ , can I?”

“Bela—“ he begins, but she thrusts her arm forward and throws him against his car. His head rings, and he’s sure he’s bitten down on his tongue. Blood dribbles over his lips.

 _“I’m not her anymore.”_ She dashes him against the windshield. It cracks, it shudders, it breaks. “Your Dean _isn’t_ Dean anymore. Get it through your stupid, _idiotic_ skull!” The glass digs into his flesh. “ _Every_ demon loves or fears him. You poor, stupid _fool_.”

“Please,” he begs, raising his voice. “I can still see you, something beaten but not broken, and it shines, it’s still there, it’s still inside you, and I’m so, _so_ sorry—“

 _“Damn you!”_ Dean has sworn in front of him, but this curse cuts him in half, clawing at his chest. “ _Damn you_ , angel. I spent my whole childhood _screaming_. I _begged_ for help. I had to take it from something that would make me scream _more_  for the next years. _You_ could have done something. _I_ could have done something.” Fury tightens around his throat. “You son of a _bitch_. I _screamed._ Did you hear me? You know what I heard?” He’s gasping, eyes watering, struggling. “ _Dean Winchester is saved_. Well, he’s gone. _Everything_ is gone.”

She lets him go. He falls on the ground, cold and hard. Bela is a maelstrom of rage and grief, eyes flickering back to red. But he _heard_. He heard the sorrow and the pain and the hidden anger at herself. It’s so familiar that it chokes him.

“This wasn’t your fault. It was the ones who hurt you. You don’t deserve it. You _didn’t_.” Her face softens, slightly, and she leans forward to catch his words. “You have humanity in you. You save children.” Her eyes are lit up faintly with the hope she described. “You protect them from harm; you rage against injustice. I know of you now. The children praise you. The wrong fear you.” He catches his breath, but still with salt in his mouth. “You’re like Dean.”

“God, is that the _only_ way you can compliment people? Compare them to Dean?” she looks as if she’s tempted to throw him against the car again, but only scoffs and shakes her head. There’s now pity, the same way someone would give a dog who throws itself up against a glass door for a treat, again and again. “News flash, angel, your Dean isn’t the Righteous Man anymore. If he can be _called_ a man. Haven’t you heard? He’s either rubbing elbows with Crowley or left him clear in the dust. The King of Hell.”

“You seem pleased about it.”

Bela shrugs. “I’m patient. I can wait. Alastair died. Then Abaddon. Then Crowley’s next. Look at me: I’m the Queen of the Crossroads. Maybe Ruby or Meg could have walked away with the crown, but they’re both dead. I’m the next to rule.” She lets him stand back up again. “ _Jesus_ , you’re dumb. You’re like me.”

“You remind me of him.” That’s another invitation for a beating, but the fight seems to have drained out of her.

“I knew him.” She shrugs casually. “Dean and I have little love lost between us. We screwed each other over both up here and down there.”

“But if he’s so dangerous...” Castiel is thinking out loud as he says, “and you claim he hates you so, you’ll need protection. Here’s a deal: I tell Dean to stand down, and—“

“Honestly, did you listen to a word you’re saying?” She sounds exasperated. “He can’t be stopped. And even if he were human, since when did Dean Winchester listen to commands?”

“True.” He agrees.

They almost laugh together.

Bela strides over to him and presses her had down on his shoulder. He feels wounds sealing, blood drain back into his body, bruises fading. He doesn’t ask why.

“Look. I can make a deal with you, just a minor deal, and you can go to Hell and at least see him. It’s not the best thing, but you’ll be happy. In a weird way.” She clucks her tongue. “If you’re stupid enough to love him, you can join him.” It is not with vice.

“I want to save him.” It’s a broken record now, but Castiel feels he has to repeat it. Dean’s fading away from him the longer he talks to Bela, spinning away to a tortured thing, screaming in the darkness but howling in it instead, challenging it, the way children close their eyes to not see the dark.

“Maybe he doesn’t need to be saved,” Bela says. “He needs to be killed.”

Castiel is silent.

“One more piece of advice, since I’m in such a generous mood: Hell never leaves you. It sinks its claws into you, and if you manage to claw your way out to breathe this fine air again, it rips you apart. There’s a gaping hole where Hell used to be—the want, the blood, the taste.” She turns her back on him. “You’re not just competing with the demon blood and the Mark of Cain. You’re competing for who he was for forty years.” Bela shakes her head again. “You’re competing for who he is _now_.”

“He’s still Dean.” But that sounds so hollow. Dean and Bela, eyes so different but the same, pain ripping them apart and piecing them together to control that pain. He remembers Dean in Hell, soul beginning to twist into darkness, how he purified the corruption and pulled him upwards. But he also remembers a broken man in a hospital bed. _It’s too big. I’m not all here._

“I built myself out of blood and bone and brimstone. I resurrected myself. I’m not Bela Talbot any more than this new Knight of Hell is Dean Winchester.” The Queen is forged iron, fire-born and beaten strong. She’s cooled, but when Bela looks back, the fire remains, but flickers, beating slowly like a heart. “If a miracle happens,” she says. “Call me.”

And Bela Talbot, Queen of the Crossroads, is gone.

Castiel kneels on the ground. He closes his eyes. The cold has seeped deep into him.


End file.
